And now, he very well might die.
Chapter Eighteen
Morty's footsteps halted, and he whispered loudly, 'Gaby?'
Collapsed on her side, moist dirt on her cheek and a multilegged bug nearing her ear, Gaby wet her lips. Her eyes burned and her heart ached for the possibilities ahead.
She had no one but herself to blame. She'd been greedy, wanting what she couldn't have. Father Mullond had told her many times that friendship was beyond her. It put her and others at risk. She had God's duty, and that should have been enough.
But castigating herself would solve nothing. She had to put the pain aside and find some logic in this absurd situation.
Summoning great strength, Gaby struggled into a sitting position. The torment was so unbearable that she decided she'd kill Morty herself if he survived this. Through teeth clenched in pain, she said, 'Shut the fuck up, Mort.'
He went quiet—and crashed toward her, 'Thank God.'
Doing what few could, Gaby compartmentalized the pain and got to her feet. Her fingers dug into Mort's arm, hard enough to leave bruises that would linger for weeks.
'You will go back,' she ordered. 'Right now.'
'No. I can't.' Both his hands wrapped around her wrist, but he couldn't pull away her steely grip. 'Gaby, please. I wouldn't be able to find my way out if I tried.'
They were too close to the target. Morty might not hear it, but the sonance of inflicted misery clamored against her eardrums in a deafening roar.
The suffering of others made her ill.
She had a choice to make, and she had to choose the others. Mort would be on his own.
'Suit yourself,' she said, and by sheer strength of will, she got her legs moving. Though she stumbled along like a zombie, Morty failed to keep up with her, and that suited Gaby fine.
She reached the isolation hospital with Morty trailing several yards behind. Eyes flinching, Gaby withdrew her knife and studied the graffiti-covered walls.
Bad premonitions vibrated from that structure.
In such close proximity, her highly attuned ears captured the perspicuous torment. Gaby found a jagged opening in the edifice by way of a boarded-up window. Termites had eaten through the broken wood slats. A rusted nail pulled free.
Holding her knife hilt in her teeth, sweat trickling down her temples, Gaby hoisted herself up to the ledge and looked inside. Oblivion greeted her. A great crepuscule of misery.
Then, as she stared with unwavering patience, a flicker of light in the distance caught her attention. Gaby used care as she brought up a foot to the ledge and levered herself into a sitting position on the treacherous sill.
A flashlight would have been a blessing, but she didn't dare, even if she had one. She would see what she needed to see, as God meant her to see it.
That's how it had always been.
Turning so her back faced the room, she slowly, inch by inch, eased down into the chamber. When she dangled by her fingertips and could still feel nothing beneath her, she gave in to trust and dropped.
Breath held, she fell for a few seconds and then landed a few feet lower with jarring impact. Her elbow collided with a hard edge, but she felt no added pain. Something toppled, metal clashed, and a cacophony of sound echoed garishly throughout the room.
Gaby froze, but just as quickly turned to access the damage.
Nothing moved. No one stirred.
The faint light was gone.
To use her intuitive sight, she had to have something to see.
Giving her eyes time to adjust to her tenebrous surroundings, her heart time to stop pounding, she waited.
As she quieted, another impression of Luther formed in her mind. Big and strong. Honest and good. Rather than discard the image, Gaby studied it, and saw woods surrounding him, a woman at his side.
Flashlights. Followers. Weapons.
The images of Luther possibly had significant meaning. If Morty had followed her, Luther might have followed him. He could be very close by.
Not that it could stop her.
Gaby opened her mind to her duty and knew what to do, where to go. As the blind might, she felt in front of her with each step and slowly dragged her feet to avoid stepping on anything sharp.
Shadows, made more vague by her perception of evil, indicated larger obstacles. Metal shelves. Tables. Objects cluttered the rotted floor, making progress sluggish. Somewhere outside, she heard Morty again whispering her name, and Gaby prayed she'd finish before he found her.
A light glimmered for an instant before snuffing out.
Ah. A tease. A taunt.
The doctor didn't realize that God guided her through such ridiculous stunts. True surroundings seldom entered into her navigation. She moved by premonition and divine persuasion.
Grasping the knife tightly in her hand. Gaby went toward the light with anticipation.
Like a trail of bread crumbs, the nictitating illumination drew her out of the large room and down a broad corridor. Gaby's every step wrought a screech of protest from warped, moldered flooring. Like thready tentacles, cobwebs reached out to her face, sticking to her hair, tangling in her eyelashes.
A thick haze of dust choked her nostrils.
There, at the end of the corridor, a narrow line of light near the floor indicated an illuminated room beyond the door.
Gaby saw only a trap.
Whoever had led her here did not want her to reach that room.
Feeling behind and to the right of her, she verified clearance, flattened herself to the wall, and waited for proof of her suspicions.
Seconds later, a rush of wind passed close to her face as someone tried to attack her with a thick, blunt weapon.
Perfect.
So fluid it was imperceptible, Gaby countered the missed attack with a rapid slash of her knife. She kept the thrust agile, clean, meaning to wound, but without throwing herself off balance.
Her aim was perfect.
The blade sank home in spongy flesh, caught for a single breath of time against muscle and sinew, and then sliced a slick path before breaking free.
The deep gouge spilled forth a flood of blood, filling the air with the acrid scent of death. It spurted into the air, over Gaby and the walls and into those annoying cobwebs.
Shock sucked the air from her victim, then gave strength to a horrified, high-pitched scream that spurred hair-raising wails from others close by.
The corridor exploded with weak howls and pain-filled shrieks, overlaid with the thumping of heavy furniture and metallic clashes reminiscent of the raucous, fearful frenzy of animals caged in a zoo.
Doing her best to tune out the disturbing caterwauling, Gaby sidled down the wall several feet and went stock-still.
She trained her ears on the quieter sounds, the whisper of a small movement and the hushed rush of painful breathing.
